


Emetophobia

by VergofTowels



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sickfic, Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/VergofTowels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You lie still, hoping against hope that the cough you heard will be the only one and that, if there are more, they’ll be dry and tight, the kind that come from your lungs.  The kind that aren’t harbingers of-</p><p>Oh God.</p><p>He’s throwing up."</p><p>John gets sick.  Dave attempts to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emetophobia

**Author's Note:**

> This is incredibly self-indulgent, as I am IRL emetophobic and turn into a sociopath whenever anyone says they feel a mite queasy. :P

You aren’t sure at first what wakes you, but one moment you’re dreaming of space and the next you’re blinking sleepily at the curl of your hand beside your face. Your room is still dark – well, as dark as it ever gets with all of your electronics glowing softly – so you know it isn’t morning. Nor do you hear anything out of the ordinary, such as a break-in. Not that you and John have anything much worth stealing in the small apartment you share. After a minute or so, you allow your eyes to close again, evening out your breathing as you’ve practiced. 

You’re a light sleeper; this shit is normal.

What isn’t quite so normal is the quick pad of footsteps outside in the hallway. Unlike you, John could experience an earthquake and still be snoozing as the building caved in around him. He has three alarms in the morning, all of which routinely wake you up as they blare through the thin wall between your bedrooms. One time, he’d even slept through those and you’d had to go in and literally drag him out of bed. You hope he’s just getting a drink or something; maybe he’s even not gone to bed yet. Naughty, naughty. You squint at your clock, which reads 4 AM, and start to get a bad feeling.

In the bathroom, John coughs.

 _Now_ you’re fucking awake. Every sense is scanning at full capacity, every limb is ready for action. Your eyes are wide, despite years of schooling your expressions into monotony, and there’s an audible _click_ as you grit your teeth, involuntarily tense. _No._ You really don’t want to have to deal with this. You lie still, hoping against hope that the cough you heard will be the only one and that, if there _are_ more, they’ll be dry and tight, the kind that come from your lungs. The kind that aren’t harbingers of-

Oh God.

He’s throwing up.

You clap your hands over your ears and squeeze your eyes shut, though not fast enough to drown out the beginning of the worst sound in the world. Your own stomach tightens painfully as he empties his and you sort of stop breathing, listening to the thump of your quickening pulse in your head. You need to get your headphones. Where did you put your headphones? Wound like a spring, you struggle out of the bedclothes, moves erratic and awkward without the use of your hands, and hop to the floor, toeing through your things half-frantically. You know you put them here _some_ where, where are they, where _are_ they?

You trip over your shoes and just catch yourself before faceplanting the shabby carpet, getting rug burn on both of your palms. Shit. But you think you may have found your backpack – yes, there it is – and those are your headphones on top in a place of honor.

John gives an awkward hiccup and hurls again.

You really try not to think about it. Why the fuck would you want to think about vomit, or vomiting, or that one time in first grade when that kid puked in the middle of presentations? Or that one time on the bus and how it had slid from one end to the other? Or, when you had been no more than four or five, the time Bro had gotten food poisoning and spent hours by the toilet, not crying – he wouldn’t cry, you don’t think, not even then – but making these terrible, _pained_ noises. You had thought he was going to die and been inconsolable for days.

Fuck, you’re freaking out.

You jam your headphones onto your ears and scramble back to bed, fumbling with your iPod until you’re blasting yourself with the densest, loudest shit you’ve got. Your heart is beating uncomfortably fast and you think your hands are shaking, too, but you don’t think you’re going to be sick – you can’t, you _can’t_ – and you’re fine. You’re a god damned Strider and you doesn’t afraid of anything.

You’re not sure how long you lie there, curled in the dark, dreading, but after a while, the hall light flickers on. You debate for an agonizing second how much of a dick you want to be, then reluctantly peel off your headphones. It’s quiet in the apartment.

“John?” you call softly, half-hoping he won’t hear you. You try not to inflect your voice at all, but you think you waver a little bit anyway. “You okay?”

The sink goes on for a little while, then snaps off again. John getting a drink or a washcloth, probably. Your fingers twitch toward your headphones, but then you hear him heave a little sigh. “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says, voice ragged. “Sorry, Dave. Go back to sleep.”

You’re an asshole, so you mumble “Okay,” instead of asking if he needs anything. You drown yourself in music again until you lose yourself to oblivion. John’s aware of all of your shortcomings by now – you met when you were nine years old, and hell, you like to talk when you drink – and he’s a fucking nice guy about every single one of them. That’s the worst part. You know that in the morning, when you mince through the apartment and flee, taking your toothbrush to the local Starbucks for your morning routine instead of staying in like a functioning member of society, he’ll just smile wanly at you from his bedroom and apologize again.

You don’t deserve him, you really don’t. So why try?


End file.
